AUTHOR : ARTIST : SURVIVOR

Child Abuse

Last year, in an attempt to reclaim my history through a veil of trauma, I began writing what turned into an autobiography. Initially, this was purely for my own healing, but I posted some excerpts on FaceBook; the reactions I received were so extreme I decided to keep my work private until it was completed. The book is now undergoing its 3rd draft, and several people have emailed me asking when it will be published, so I plan to make it available later this year.

The following excerpt is from Chapter 14 (each chapter is numbered after the age I was). Some background – my mother was still married to Greg Cox, the father of my three half-brothers (Jasper, Silas, and Zachary), and a founder of The Ecology Party (now called ‘the Green Party’). We were living in Peldon village, Essex. This chapter tells not just of the abuses my mother and I suffered (I have attempted to write with humour, rather than compile a ‘misery memoir’) but also my embracing of anarchism / punk, and how I took up the practice of magick – who my first teachers were, and my first ‘results’.

____________________

Silas was born sometime in 1984. I cannot remember exactly what month it was. He looked like a miniature Greg, but with curly blonde hair. I now had two half brothers, which might have added up to one full brother, but did not. I had little to do with the house dwellers by then and felt an outsider to this new family.

Now there was the baby there was need of extra money. Greg decided to rent out the caravan. For a while, at least, I was allowed to move back into the house. Although I had heard my parents arguing from the end of the garden I did not realise until this time how far things had escalated.

One day, when Owain had come to visit and had been staying with me in the attic, Greg kicked off. He began by taking a sledge-hammer to some kitchen units gifted to us by Uncle Dennis and Aunty Alice, which for some reason were still in the back garden where they had been since being delivered. Then there was screaming from downstairs in the kitchen. Owain stayed put, his face turning sickly grey. The screaming stopped and the back door slammed. I heard Greg get in the car and drive away, then went downstairs. As I walked past Jasper’s room I saw him huddled up under his blankets, trying to block it all out.

In the kitchen, Silas was still in his high chair, crying. Mum lay on the kitchen floor, surounded by shards of broken crockery, blood pouring from her head. Greg had hit her with a plate.

I think the neighbours must have taken her to hospital. It is hard for me to remember. What I do know is that she needed six stitches.

A little while later the new lodger moved into the caravan. I think the lodger’s name might have been Mark, but I am not sure. He was a Christian, having converted after his split from a hereditary witchcraft coven. The priesthood had been passed to his older brother, Tony Skinner, who had allegedly attempted to murder him with an athame (ritual dagger) for betraying his Oath. He feared for his life and the fact he was staying with us was a secret. Mum did his shopping so nobody would see him.

I had seen Tony Skinner swanning round Colchester with his long red hair and coven of young ladies, their flapping cloaks giving glimpses of stocking tops and thigh high leather boots. His priestess, Mandy, was the lead singer in the rock band Cat Genetica, while Tony was the guitarist. Wild rumours were spreading about sex magic orgies, all lipstick lesbians apart from their Magister. There were also rumours about the blood sacrifices, which did not sound as attractive, but he definitely had something working for him and it looked a lot more fun than Christianity. I kept my opinions to myself and did not ask too many questions.

Mark mostly kept to himself, out of sight, as is sensible when a black magic cult is hunting you. It was not long before he found a Christian flower-child girlfriend and was gone. I hardly even spoke to him.

* * *

There was a report in the newspaper about how they had brought in a curfew in Paris that only applied to punks, making it law that they were not allowed out in the streets after 10.00pm. A small gang had been stopped by the police, roughed up a bit and searched. A girl punk among them had had a pet rat, which had bitten an officer and turned out to have rabies.

Reading this at the breakfast table I asked my parents, “Can I have a pet rat, please?”

“Absolutely not. They’re filthy creatures,” said Greg.

I was crestfallen.

When he was not around Mum said, “Maybe you could keep a pet rat, so long as it was a secret from Greg. We could put the cage in the bottom of your wardrobe and he’d never know.”

She even gave me some money to buy the cage and the rat with.

I called her Lucrezia. She was white, with brown and black spots. She seemed quite happy hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe, and chewed the hem of my Crombie all along the bottom. When I went to Colchester she came with me, hidden in my inside pocket, which I lined with tissue paper. When she wanted to come out she crawled down my sleeve, nudging me with her nose. I would hold open my hand and she would suddenly appear, as if by a conjuring trick. If I went to visit people she would run around freely, then come back when I called her and climb back in my pocket. Rats are as smart as dogs, by my reckoning, or at least Lucrezia was. She was my constant companion for much of the early summer.

I was at school when Greg found the cage and threw it down the stairs. Mum said he squealed like a girl, and seemed quite smug about it. Nevertheless, I was told I had to get rid of her. I was devastated.

Owain said I could bring the cage round to his, and he would look after her. That way I could still have my rat at weekends. Sadly, however, she got out of her cage while he was at school. She tempted hamsters to the bars of their cages by dropping bits of food, then killed them and ate whatever she could reach. When he got home there was carnage, half eaten hamsters with their guts torn out all over the place. He caught Lucrezia and punished her by not giving her any more food. By the time I saw him again she was dead, and we had a major falling out.

Teenagers can be very dramatic, and I had a lot on my plate besides a dead rat. I had also drunk a whole bottle of Merrydown to myself. Nevertheless, Owain and Simon were confounded – hard core punks are not supposed to burst into tears. They are especially not supposed to take themselves to an overpass and attempt to throw themselves into passing traffic. Simon dragged me forcibly off the railings and sat on me until I calmed down and promised I was not going to commit suicide over a pet rat.

* * *

Shortly before Mark (the Christian in the caravan) left I was displaced into the shed sorry studio at the end of our quarter acre garden, which was vacated for my accommodation. I had to make my own bed; nailing short planks of wood across a door-less old wardrobe, laid on its back. This provided support for the mattress with storage space beneath. I was not the best carpenter and every now and then a slat would break, the mattress tipping into the cupboard at one end or the other, but it was comfortable most of the time.

The shed sorry studio was annexed on one side with the greenhouse, which meant free weed, so long as I was not too greedy and Greg did not notice. The opposite wall was immediately next to the fencing for Mr. & Mrs. Balls’s chickens and what had been sold to them as an ornamental goat, which I suspected was some kind of shoat or geep, if such cross-breeding is possible. It was black, with sharp little horns, and bounced on its stumpy hind-legs like springs, rearing up to pin you with its yellow slitted eyes before nutting you like a Barmy Army skinhead from Glasgow. Sunrise was accompanied by the crowing cockerel and the possessed geep head-butting the fence.

A friend of Mum’s was, or had been, going out with a drummer from the punk band C.R.A.S.S., or something. Apparently they lived not far from Colchester on a communal farm, but they were never seen around the graveyard or by any of us in town. A selection from their catalogue was passed on to me; ‘Penis Envy’, the ‘Big A Little A’ single, the infamous ‘Person’s Unknown’, with the album ‘Hex’ by Poison Girls having a noticeably witchy theme. Strangely, Mum did not appreciate the music when I played it to her, showing her the lyrics on the album cover for the anarcho-femisist classic ‘Jump Mother Jump’.

“Why would I want to listen to something like that?” she said.

I suppose the lyrics were a bit too close to home for her.

Rarely mentioned in modern histories of punk music. most of which try to write the movement off as a flash in the pan, is the political divide that was happening at street level. They did not call it ‘The Punk Wars’ for nothing. Not that Greg could tell the difference, accusing all punks of being fascists and me along with them; which was pretty rich considering his fantasies of ‘Green Shirts’ forcibly installing composter toilets and raising Greg as the UK’s ecologically sound dictator. I did suggest he tried at least reading some of the lyrics on the record covers, printed in concession to the vocals being completely incomprehensible, which might have been why Greg found it hard to distinguish between the movements, but as usual there was no arguing with him. All this seems particularly ironic when you consider that his friend Cat, who stayed on his land in France, was the manager of the punk band Special Duties, who made the alternative charts in N.M.E. and Melody Maker with their single ‘Colchester Council Full of Shit’. Their singer called himself Steve Arrogant, in parody of Steve Ignorant, the singer of C.R.A.S.S., which, might be why we never them in town; people were jealous and had a shitty attitude.

I considered myself an anarchist, although inspired more by the individualism of Stirner than the mutualism of Proudhon, the collectivism of Bakunin, or the communism of Kropotkin; I did not like doing what I was told by anyone, be that government or society, but that is teenagers for you. My attraction to anarchism should come as no surprise; its origins, as far back as it can be traced, lie with the Free Spirit movements of the eleventh century, which was largely spread by hedge-priests, heretics, and witches; in an age where church and state were one, politics and spirituality become inseparable at every layer of society. I covered the plaster-board walls of the shed with album covers and fold out poster art of white on black stencil declaring ‘Jesus died for his own sins – not mine.’

The next lodgers to move into the caravan were far more interesting. They too seemed to be hiding, although were nowhere as paranoid as Mark had been. They had recently been banished from Findhorn, a New Age commune in Scotland, allegedly for ‘upsetting the fairies’. Their names were Leroy and Natasha.

I do not know much about Leroy’s background, except that he was a paid up member of Sinn Feinn, despised the I.R.A. (who I at the time had naïve and somewhat misplaced sympathies for) and played acoustic guitar. I thought he was alright for a hippy, even if I could never agree with his opinion that The Doors had any influence on punk (which he may in fact have been right about).

I think perhaps Natasha had known my mother from when they were at school, although I had not met her before. She was the daughter of Sir Donald Swann, the composer of ‘Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud’, from which he gained considerable royalties any time Playschool or some other TV show assumed the song was ‘traditional’. He was also the best friend of Tolkien, for whom he had set to music all the songs from Lord of the Rings. Apparently Donald came to visit, making no effort to conceal his staunchly conservative disapproval of all our lifestyles, although I was not in at the time. Mum described him as, “The kind of person who thinks, if someone has no money, they should get down on their knees and scrub the doorsteps of those who do.”

Leroy and Natasha spent a lot of time socializing with Mum and Greg, smoking copious amounts of weed and sitting round playing records, particularly The Incredible String Band‘s The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter, the lyrics of which provoked considerable discussion; was the answer to the riddle about the five elements in a basket as obvious as it seemed? Did ‘Just Like John’ imply the band had turned Christian? Were there hidden meanings in ‘If I Were a Witch’s Hat’? (The album grew on me in later years, perhaps out of nostalgia, but at the time I hated it).

Both Mum and Natasha would sing as Leroy played guitar, mostly traditional folk songs about fairies and witches. They both had stunning voices, my mother’s like the ringing of bells and Natasha’s with a slightly husky whisky and cigarettes sexiness.

Mum had written several books of poetry, all in the most intricate cursive script as with a feather. Leroy and Natasha persuaded her to turn some of them into songs. The results, never performed to an audience, were enchanting;

No breath breaks silence, nor dry twig moves,

The stones unstirred by weightless hooves.

The trees bear witness, mute as I,

Grunhild’s host prepares to fly.

They said, “You have not seen them, you could not see them, no,

“These shades the pentagram of man eclipsed so long ago.”

Should I not then have set my foot upon this Old Straight Way?

A greater magic moves this world than Arte of ours can sway..

Each evening as the lodgers prepared to go to bed I heared Natasha sweeping the floor of the caravan with a broom, from the back to the door, then out the door, calling aloud, “Out! Out! And stay out!”

I thought at first she might have been kicking out Rosie dog, who was always on the blag if she thought there might be food. It certainly was not Leroy. Eventually I worked out that it must have been some kind of banishing ritual. Perhaps they had a problem with offended fairies that had followed them from Findhorn. They believed in some pretty nutty stuff.

One evening when I was hanging out with them in the caravan Natasha said to me, “We’ve seen you flying around at night.”

“Astral projection. You have what they call a ‘wild talent’,” said Leroy, passing me a neat weed spliff (on agreement I did not tell my parents).

“But astral projection? Leaving my body? Isn’t that all about travelling in the real world, finding missing people and spying on military bases? I haven’t been doing anything like that.”

“That’s remote viewing. It’s close what what you do, but not quite. Have you ever tried it?”

“It’s not actually possible, is it?”

“There are secret government projects where they train people to do that kind of thing. They wouldn’t invest all that time and money if they didn’t get results,” said Leroy.

“Where you go is more like a dream, right? Like a fairy world?” said Natasha.

I knew she was not referring to the kind of fairies in Victorian children’s books, but all the same it sounded a bit silly. I had yet to fully understand that the ‘language’ of magic is all about consciousness, and how it is experienced within trance, dream, or other altered states.

“The shaman call it the spirit world. Ceremonial magicians call it the astral dimension,” said Leroy.

“A magic world, with mountains and forests, but also other places,” I admitted. “It’s just imagination though.”

“Then how come we’ve both seen you?” said Natasha.

I was stumped. I had never told anybody about my meditations. I knew it was an eccentricity, since nobody else I knew seemed to do it, but it had never occurred to me that it might be any kind of ‘psychic skill’.

Over the next few weeks we talked about yoga, and I had my first proper meditation lessons, writing down my results in a diary and attempting to prolong periods of mental quiet. I also began a study of magical symbolism and how it is applied. It was explained to me that the elemental forces were like the elements in chemistry but related instead to consciousness. Earth is the body, with all its needs, air is the intellect and the ability to create or understand models and theories, fire is the power of will and the life force moving through all nature, water is the emotions and powers of intuition. They also taught me about the Tattvas of yogic meditation, and how they could be used as doorways into specific astral realms.

We practised a technique where I stood on my head for around three minutes, was lowered slowly with my head still to the floor, rising over half a minute into a kneeling posture. I then focused on the elemental symbol I desired to explore. The Tattvas themselves were presented to me as bold shapes in complimentary colours on a background of black. For example, if I desired to move into the elemental realm of fire, the symbol for which is an upward pointing red triangle, I would be shown a green triangle (cut from a piece of coloured paper) on a black card. At the very centre was a white spot, which I focused upon without allowing my vision to waver. This resulted, through a natural effect of the brain, in the triangle apparently turning black and momentarily disappearing, at which point I would close my eyes and see the ‘ghost image’ left behind; a red triangle requiring no effort to visualize. This image was maintained for as long as possible then ‘moved through’ as an astral doorway. After this came free-form visions inspired by the idea of being in the ‘realm of elemental fire’ and everything this symbolized to me.

Apparently all this would all be a lot safer than just travelling around willy nilly with no idea where I was going. Both Leroy and Natasha insisted there were astral vampires and other spirit entities which, even if I had yet to meet one, were out there waiting for the unwary traveller. They made constant reference to Israel Regardie’s The Complete Golden Dawn System of Magick, which they let me borrow so I could read more of the exercises. I suspect they had also been reading Kenneth Grant’s Typhonian Trilogy. They made regular mail-order purchases from the Sorcerer’s Apprentice in Leeds, and whenever they did so they allowed me to choose something that interested me.

“So long as you don’t tell your parents. Greg gets totally freaked by this kind of thing,” said Leroy, with a wink.

I supplemented my studies with regular visits to Colchester library, where there was a well stocked occult section. It was a shame they did not teach witchcraft at school, or I might have spent more time there. Like many people studying magick in the modern day read whatever I could find by Crowley. Although I had a good chuckle at his poem Leah Sublime, which I had in chapbook form, his works seemed deliberately obtuse and belaboured with gratuitously obscurantist verbiage. It was a long time before I could understand any of it, and even then it was with reservations – he was a vile character and not someone to be admired. (Many years later I learned that Crowley had made efforts to gain initiation into the Essex Craft and had been turned down for being a sex pest, so I congratulate myself on my good taste, even if nobody else does.)

I was much more interested in runes, and the relationship between ancient magick and modern writing. There remains a strong resemblance between the runes and the letters spelling these words as I rite for you to rede. Books of spells were called ‘grammars’, from where we get the word ‘grimoire’.

I was soon expanding my knowledge of the grimoires, particularly The Goetia, which I already had passing familiarity with through it being referenced in DragonQuest. In 1986 it was much harder to get your hands on original manuscripts, as there was no internet, so I had to make do with books by people who could, such as Richard Cavendish’s Black Magic and Idris Shah’s The Secret Lore of Magic. Regarding the tradition of East Anglia, the most influential of is Le Veritable Dragon Rouge, otherwise called The Grand Grimoire, a 17th century text dealing with the making of petite pacts, where daemons are petitioned for smaller favours, and the grande pact, as with the tragedy of Faust. Grimoire are, in my opinion, a much overlooked literary tradition, far more interesting than just ritual instruction or long lists of demons, with many reading more like stories or confessionals. Like any good book, they act like astral doorways, the reader losing all awareness of the here and now as they are hypnotised by the glyphs upon its page, transporting them to another world.

Both Goetia and galðr (the Germanic word for knowledge of runes) are central to the witchcraft of England, especially in East Anglia. There is evidence of their combination with in the 10th Century text, Solomon and Saturn, where a formulae is given for banishing the Roman god of darkness by spelling out the words Pater Nosta in runes. Their relationship is also apparent in the surviving galðrbok (runic grimoires) of Iceland. As Waite says of The Goetia in The Book of Ceremonial Magic, 1911, “Here it is not the Law of Continuity persisting in its formulae despite the Law of Fantasia; it is Croquetemaine explained by Diabolus, the runes of Elf-Land read with the interpretation of Infernus..”

Besides witchcraft, Greg was afraid of spiders. I witnessed him try to sweep a huge Boris out the back door into the garden, but it scuttled up the broomstick towards him. He spun the broom around and around, but the spider kept changing direction, like it totally had it in for him. He squealed like a little girl with blood in her knickers, and threw the broom into the back garden, as far away as he could. I laughed about that for ages, but only when he was not in earshot. He also squealed when a wolf spider leaped on him off the lampshade hanging in the front room and bit him, dropping his towel and running naked out the back door. That one definitely had it in for him. While Greg was arachnophobic, I have always had a fondness for spiders, be they big fat Boris, skinny Daddy Long Legs, or Incy Wincy. and encouraged them to share my shed in large numbers.

In my studies I came across a traditional spell involving spiders, alleged granting the power of invisibility. I knew enough by then not to take such claims literally, assuming the magic was in some psychic element allowing the caster to escape notice by other means than light travelling right through them. Nevertheless it seemed worth a try, since the worst part of my day was coming home in the evenings and sneaking past Greg’s truck – if it was in the drive – without being noticed.

Like most traditional witchcraft it was not a spell that would appeal to bunnies; it required the spiders be eaten whole. I started off with money spiders and worked up to the thriving community of big fat Boris building webs in the shed roof. Strangely it did seem to have an effect; it got so my parents did not notice my comings and goings, or even if I was in at all.

Whether it was anything to do with the curses I put on him, I do not know, but Greg had a rapid onset of early baldness. He lost all the hair on the top of his head, while what remained stuck out wildly to either side like a bad clown wig. He made a green mushy patē, the main ingredients of which were marijuana and vodka, then spread it all over his bald patch. He walked around like that, naked and hairy but for a pair of home made wooden clogs that made his feet look twice their real size, and his baldness smothered in this green mush that looked like a giant pigeon had shat on his head, singing “Oopie Doopie Doopie Doo” to himself.

I do not know if it was supposed to be magic or science, or both, but the patē had no effect whatsoever. This might be because I had plundered the vodka and topped it up with water; nobody else in the house drank, except for Rosie, and as far as I was concerned it was going to waste.

Although it became impossible to take Greg seriously he was no less terrifying. I had nightmares about being taken down to Hell to converse on matters of the soul with none other than Lucifer. His appearance, as well as that of the hierarchy surrounding him, were as depicted in Collin de Plancy’s Dictionnaire Infernal (1863); huge comic noses, oversized feet, like surreal caricatures. It was almost impossible not to laugh at them, but for the consequences being so serious. It was just the same trying not to snigger at Greg. I would soon discover I was not alone in finding him laughable.

One day, when I was in Colchester, I wandered into Phaédre, a hippy café that had opened on a cobbled street leading to the Castle Park. They sold second had records and books, although I did not find anything on the shelves that interested me. Also on sale was a local publication, a kind of intellectual fanzine, called The Corpus of English Conversation. It ran a comic strip about a wife beating hippy hypocrite with crazy hair sticking out around a shiny bald patch called ‘Mr. Oopie Doo’.

I do not know quite how Greg managed to convince himself it was ‘coincidence’, and that Colchester’s alternative scene were not laughing at him behind his back, but he did. Denial, as they say, is more than just a river in Egypt.

I received a FB message an old ‘soror’ from my Chaos magic days, when I was involved with the Illuminates of Thanateros. She accepted that links between my parents – Ann & Adrian Brynn-Evans – and the paedophile ring operating in the West Country, were all well documented; including Colin Batley and his cul-de-sac cult (Ann’s initiatory ‘Eye of Horus’ tattoo can be seen in National Geographic: Taboo: Witchcraft), and the murder of Peter Solheim (Ann & Adrian appeared at the murder trial, along with Peter Petrauske – later convicted as a member of the ring, with links also made to Solheim – Google the newspaper reports), However, said ex-soror then made the absurd claim that I could not demonstrate any links between my family, the ring, and the IOT, concluding she had no reason to believe me.

It seems this is misinformation has been widely spread by the IOT, no doubt – quite ironically – originating with its leadership, currently Julian Vayne and Nikki Wyrd (real name Nicola Ward); my daughter’s step-father and biological mother. In other words, the current leadership of the IOT in the UK and my family are, to all intents and purposes, one and the same.

Julian Vayne has known Ann and Adrian since the 1990s. Intimately, I expect, considering that my parents joined Julian’s Sex Magic Working Group, back when they were all living in ‘the big MK’ of Milton Keynes. Embarrassing, but true. They later reconnected in the West Country through their mutual membership of The Pagan Federation, and The Friends of the Museum of Witchcraft. These connections can all be verified by any researcher.

Julian’s partner Nicola Ward, also happens to be the mother of my only daughter, Rose. Ann refers to Nicola as her ‘daughter out-law’, rather than in-law, since we never married yet they are related through Rose. Nicola’s daughter is Ann Brynn-Evans’ grand-daughter.

And yes, you read that right. It seems Julian was first screwing my mother, then many years later the mother of my daughter, more recently the both of them at once. This is indicative of how incestuous and sleazy the small world of ‘occultism’ really is. Worse than this, according to the disclosures of my stepson, while he was in the care of his biological father Peter Pracownick, also an old Pagan friend of Adrian’s, he was handed over to the Colin Batley cult for sexual exploitation – the creation of extreme child abuse images, some – but not all – of which was ‘Satanically themed’. Julian Vayne, Nicola Ward, and Ann & Adrian Brynn-Evans, were, according to these disclosures, all involved in the Colin Batley group. As from the IOT’s Halloween meeting in 2003, held at Trevalga Manor, Cornwall, they were all involved in the sexual abuse of my learning disabled stepson, who was at that time just 6 years old. Since then he had been constantly re-targetted, and this is almost definitely continuing today – he has been returned to Trevalga Manor, and the people he said abused him make no secret of there presence there. The connection between Peter Pracownick, Julian Vayne and Nicola Ward is also easily verified with a simple Google search.

Rose has sex-death (the meaning of ‘Thanateros’) cultists for a mother (Nicola Ward), stepfather (Julian Vayne), grandfather (Robert Harris), grandmother (Ann Brynn-Evans), and step-grandfather (Adrian Brynn-Evans). Given the addition of corruption in local authorities, and a paedophile ring members who ‘just happened’ to be living in our immediate area here in Bristol (Martyn Tucker), it is no wonder she was totally ‘duped’ – Jasmine and I were the only people around her telling the truth. She puts herself in dire jeopardy by remaining in touch with them, along with those around her, and is apparently completely their creature. Since Rose has been exposed as feeding information about us to people trying to harm us, ran messages between Martyn Tucker (a member of the paedophile ring) and Peter Pracownick (the biological father), and has lied to us and caused as much additional hurt as possible, Rose has made herself too great a liability to allow in our lives.

That’s how real this is, and how tragic. I have even had to cut all contact with my own daughter. That doesn’t mean I don’t still love her, or that she does not still love me, however duped she has been into misdirecting her anger. I’ll never forget her saying, “If it is all true, Dad is to blame for abandoning me to a paedophile ring.” Which is hardly fair – just because it didn’t work out between her mother and me does not mean I abandoned her – indeed I spent many years fighting for access; contact between Rose and I was, in the end, enforced by the Family Law Courts. Ironic, then, that Rose should, in 2013, appear in the Family Law Courts here in Bristol to joyfully grass her father up for smoking marijuana, as if this were ‘evidence’ I was a bad parent, betraying her step-brother by attempting to sway the courts into returning him to his abusers. As it happened the Magistrate made a completely fair ruling – that her stepbrother should choose for himself where he wanted to be – but social services never explained this choice to him.

And speaking of misdirected anger; I also have to deal with people like this ex-soror, who seems to have returned to activity in the Illuminates of Thanateros, UK. I understand her cognitive dissonance only too well. It is hard to accept such unpalatable truths, especially if they concern people you once thought of as ‘frater’ or ‘soror’, let alone if they are also of your own blood family. My ex-soror claims to have no reason to believe me. The truth is, she has no genuine reason not to. We have no reason to lie. We are long over being re-traumatized when people fail to hear us, but we won’t pretend it is easy putting our necks above the line for other people’s benefit. It is not like either of us owed her any favours, nor anyone else we have warned, but at least we tried.

There is some good news, however small in comparison to our tragedy.

Judging by sales of THE NUERONOMICΘN, and the gathering membership of ICΘN, more and more people are seeing through the lies. This is very encouraging – not just for us, but for occultism as a whole. Many of us remember when it was impossible to tell your average Catholic that their preistcraft was riddled with paedophiles, or that there were close links between the Mafia and the Vatican. Our situation has been entirely comparable. More so than most ‘occultists’ are yet ready to realize. The Vatican had been peddling exactly the same lies and excuses, as well as silencing disclosures with allegations of ‘false memory syndrome’, ‘mental health issues’, ‘attention seeking’, and all the rest, that certain occult leaders (Satanic and otherwise) continue to peddle today – the only difference is that the rings operating within occultism continue to thrive unchallenged.

It is clear that, if we want occultism to thrive, we need to expose the paedophiles and sort this problem out from the ground upwards. Nobody else is going to do this for us. It is also clear that those with the wisdom to hear the disclosures of victims, or of whistle-blowers like ourselves, remain in the minority – but our numbers are growing, and they shall continue to grow.

It will not be long before there are enough of us to make life very difficult for the guilty indeed.

Those opposed to abusive mind control, within occultism and society as a whole, need to organise, network, and direct our magick towards its complete and absolute destruction. We are engaged in what amounts to psychic warfare. Let our minds become our weapons, with which to liberate ourselves and others. To this end the anti-order I.C.Θ.N. has been formed: the International Conspiracy of Theta Neuromancers.

I.C.Θ.N. is a network of independent sorcerers and psychic researchers, membership of which is through self initiation and declaration – in much the same manner as the hacker group Anonymous. No expectations are placed upon agents beyond supporting one another in our work and opposing those who are our natural enemies. Agents may declare themselves publicly or keep their allegiance secret according to personal preference. They may work together or alone, but always towards a common end; the liberation of our culture from mind control.

Agents recognise one another through the Theta symbol, displayed upon the person as jewellery, a tattoo, a badge, or even simply as an avatar over social media, in much the same way as the members of any group recognise one another through shared symbols. I.C.Θ.N. has no official centre, leadership, or online presence. Networking is achieved through coincidental meetings and mutual introductions only. All that is required is to display the symbol, cast our enchantments, and we shall find one another. Upon doing so it may be appropriate to offer the ‘watch words’; “Hello, you and I should know each other.”

Where the establishment form orders, the magicians of I.C.Θ.N. form societies. These rely entirely upon voluntary cooperation, with nobody giving or obeying orders of any kind. Structure must be allowed to arise spontaneously; one does not defeat an enemy by playing a game whose rules they have devised, but by playing a game they cannot predict or determine. Similarly, there are certain patterns that tend to arise within free social dynamics, such as the circle, and the circles within circles; to deny this would also be to deny address to implicit hierarchies that arise naturally.

There are no robes of office, or requirements of nudity, in group rituals of I.C.Θ.N.. Members may wear any clothing they choose, so long as it is either black or white; the neutral ‘non colours’. If service to the archetypes is to be given, coloured clothing may be adopted as appropriate to the seven rays. If an altar is prepared, the charaktēre of Theta should be prominently displayed.

All workings, actions, or other activities are the responsibility of the individuals concerned. Any agent may coordinate a meeting or action. No agent is obligated to attend or comply. All agents must remain aware of attempts to infiltrate or otherwise pervert the course of the I.C.Θ.N. egregore.

Active members of I.C.Θ.N. are invited, but not obligated, to share confirmed research and ‘tried and tested’ rituals with other agents through I.C.Θ.N. TRAINING PAPERS. These should be clearly designated as ‘internal’ and ‘public’ with regards to publication.

While discretion may be important to the success of certain projects, and magical operations are generally undermined through discussion with outsiders, no oaths of secrecy are required. Agents may also leave at any time without fear of reprisals from the conspiracy; this will never in itself be considered a betrayal.

It should be apparent that I.C.Θ.N. will not gain support from the established / establishment ‘occult orders’; to which it is diametrically opposed. Such is neither courted or required. Agents may choose to boycott any business supporting or compromising with abusive mind control groups, or conceive of direct actions to damage such businesses and where possible expose and destroy them. It is up to each individual agent to decide for themselves what actions they deem appropriate.

⸫ Г ⸫

It is clear that Western culture requires desperate and urgent healing, of the kind that only magick can provide. The agents of I.C.Θ.N. include those organically called to this task by virtue of the light within them; acting as solitary pylons for the Gamma frequencies, or uniting to awaken this integrating light in others, and in society as a whole.

The New Aeon will dawn only when we all share the power to see what we see, hear what we hear, and know what we know.

For further information see THE NEURONOMICON, the official training manual of I.C.Θ.N., available soon. Watch this space..

Those who were on the scene in the 1980s – 1990s will be aware that one of the things that gave Chaos magic its ‘street cred’ was the way it kept being referenced in the comic 2000AD.. where the contemporary cult figures Alan More and Grant Morrison cut their teeth. I have met no small number of CM practitioners that have admitted to me that their initial introduction was through the comic – without this it probably would never have taken off and become the fad it is today. Phil Hine boasts of being included as a character in 2000AD his book Prime Chaos (what he neglects to admit is that I was the one who made that possible – not the only time he has been disingenuous regarding his gains from our brief ‘friendship’). Julian Vayne also talks about being a fan of 2000AD in his self aggrandising work The Book of Baphomet (published in 2011 when Vayne joined the I.O.T., ten years after I had resigned, and written with my ex-partner Nikki Wyrd, who I split with 25 years ago). For some bizarre reason Vayne identifies Baphomet with Judge Dredd, rather than the hoofed and horned anti-hero Nemesis the Warlock, or the robot Chaos magician Deadlock. Perhaps he was jealous not just of my previous relationship with his partner but also of my friendship with the creator of those characters, Pat Mills – but was unaware that Pat was the originator of the entire comic in the first place?

What none of the current Id-I.O.T.s will admit to, at least these days, is that I played a large part in Chaos magic’s appearance in 2000AD. I have also appeared in the comic a number of times, although unlike Phil Hine I appear under my own name – as myself! – and have not been lampooned or killed off horribly. You can find me as Brother Nathaniel in Nemesis the Warlock, Book 3, in the only ever Nemesis photo-strip (1986) I appeared twice (I was the punk in Forbidden Planet, and the top-hat wearing loon on the moon who scrawled “Nothing is true & everything is possible” on the cell walls), while more recently, a character called Nathaniel appeared in book 2 of Pat Mill’s Defoe, a story set in the 17th century, where I am seen flying around in angelic armour created by – and stolen from – Dr. John Dee.

Chaos Magic has been appearing again within the pages of 2000AD recently – the character Nemesis is long dead, but Deadlock remains alive in Pat Mill’s story ABC Warriors. The below page is from this week’s copy (artwork is by the incomparable Clint Langley)..

Gosh. Deadlock sacrificing children? It is almost as if Pat Mills has been paying attention to our situation, and that the ‘leadership’ of Chaos magic (i.e. the Illuminates of Thanateros) has fallen into the hands of ritualistic child abusers, is it not? Deadlock almost appears to be quoting them.. And he’s being fought against by Tubal-Cain, too, whose name just happens to be a Masonic ‘Watchword’..

Support for our cause pops up in the most unexpected places, such as on news stands across the UK, and in a specialist comic shops near you..

The truth is that I have never been guilty of child neglect or abuse of any kind – the court cases Vayne writes of concerned the Colin Batley ‘occult’ paedophile ring of which both Vayne and Mogg identified to me as having been members; along with a number of others associated with the Illuminates of Thanateros UK and my fucked up family (pretty much the same thing these days). Nor, as Vayne has been telling people, and as is claimed on a website he and Nikki Wyrd (Nicola Ward) made to libel me, have I ever possessed ‘child pornography’ – a fact easily checked as this would mean I would be on the Sex Offender’s register.

The people Vayne claims he ‘supported’ through their ‘hard time’ were the abusive ‘father’ and stepmother who sold the child to the paedophile ring, and who – so the child told me – have themselves also been sexually abusing them.

The IPCC report also shows there was no meaningful police investigation into the allegations against the paedophile ring because the child making the disclosures was ‘vulnerable’ due to their disability – they are diagnosed as borderline autistic, with a learning disability. Although they could in fact make themselves perfectly understood the his mother, myself, and others, Social Worker Rebecca Mumford failed to interview the victim in a suitable manner and the ‘investigation’ then proceeded as if the child had made no disclosures at all. Based on her misinformation Crown Prosecution Service decided they were not suitable as a witness and could not be relied upon to ‘take the stand’ in court.

In other words, THE SYSTEM FAILS TO PROTECT THE DISABLED.

This should be of concern to all parents of disabled children – if your child is similarly targetted THE SYSTEM WILL NOT PROTECT YOUR CHILD. Furthermore the authorities will attempt to cover for this failing by demonising you, the parent, if you or your child make allegations of abuse. This is the very definition of vulnerable – to be without protection or support of any kind – and then to be further victimised by the very authorities whose responsibility it is supposed to be to come to the ‘rescue’. THIS IS A BREACH OF HUMAN RIGHTS AND HAS TO CHANGE NOW. Every child, disabled or not, deserves to be heard if they speak out about abuse of any kind. That we are talking here about abuse from a sadistic paedophile ring, where the victim was drugged and raped by many people, re-targetted again and again throughout their entire childhood, makes this particularly disturbing.

The paedophile ring is still operating, unobstructed and uninvestigated, due to this failing of the system. Other vulnerable children are at risk from these scum – one of them even works as a sex educator for vulnerable children, despite having written several books about devil worship and drugs, and so vulnerable victims are in ready supply, not just to them but to the paedophile ring within which they operate.

The brave child who made the disclosures this blog is based upon was returned to their abusive ‘father’ Peter Pracownick as a result of this FAILURE OF THE SYSTEM. We also know of at least one other child that is being similarly abused – so severely this has resulted in brain damage, meaning the system will also fail this child if and when they make disclosures of their own.

THE GUILTY KNOW THEY CANNOT BE PROSECUTED DUE TO THIS FAILURE OF THE SYSTEM IF THEY TARGET THE VULNERABLE AND DISABLED. THEY ARE THE LOWEST SCUM IMAGINABLE AND THE SYSTEM PROTECTS THEM – even those officers who know exactly what they are have no choice in this matter. As C.P.S. officer Carolyn Belafonte said to us, herself in tears as she spoke, “Sometimes you can know damn well they did it, but you just can’t get them for it.”

The IPCC report also shows that police failed to interview the victim in a suitable manner – and let me say something here – this was entirely the fault of incompetent social worker Rebecca Mumford. She and the interviewing officer made a surprise visit to the victim’s school, making no attempt to explain to the victim that they were not in trouble and traumatising them further. The report says that the child victim said several times, quite clearly, “They drugged me and raped me.”

Rebecca Mumford recorded that the child suffers from ‘echolalia’, which appears to be a condition she made up on the spot, claiming they were simply repeating words they had heard without understanding them. Rebecca spent much time with the victim, and if this was a genuine mistake on her part it is one that she most surely recognised but did nothing about. She had many opportunities to ‘u-turn’, having spent more time with the victim than with their mother, or myself. This disgusting woman should be in jail for her incompetence. She forced contact between the victim and their abusive father Peter Pracownick. She denied the existence of the cult, despite Batley and others having been successfully prosecuted, and despite my parent’s appearing in newspaper reports as associating with them, and even said to Jasmine, “It was always about pining this on you, right from the start.” She also said, “Even if there was abuse, he [the victim] must have had some nice times as well.” (WTF?!!?)

We note that Rebecca Mumford had recently transferred to Bristol Social Services and originally came from Wales, where Colin Batley’s cult was operating. We also note from several disclosures, such as those made by the anonymous Deathcultreject in 2009, that there were Social Workers in the paedophile ring. It is certainly the case that Rebecca Mumford undermined the investigation in every possible way, and we do not consider it impossible that Mumford did this deliberately. She also – AGAINST THE RULING OF THE MAGISTRATE IN OUR FAMILY LAW CASE – delivered the victim back to their abusive father.

It has taken us 5 years to recover from the grief and trauma enough to think clearly on these matters. Only now are we beginning to gather the strength to seek legal retribution for the wrongs against us and our children. Watch this space.

Five years have passed since the disclosures that made this blog necessary. During this time the guilty and their dupes have done everything they can to disseminate misinformation and character assassination across the internet in an attempt to discredit me. As well as suffering the grief of losing my entire family, all of whom I loved deeply, I have been subjected to libel and slander of the worst kind. Since this can easily be found by anyone who Googles my name, this has also seriously damaged my career. I have lost several jobs as a result. Although I have thankfully still managed to sell my art, and so I am not completely broke despite my undeserved online undeserved ‘reputation’, I do not make nearly enough to live on. It is clear my name will never fully recover from any of this, even if and when the guilty are finally exposed and jailed.

I have a collection of malicious emails, which have been forwarded to the police, complete with less than subtle taunts and attempts at n.l.p. clearly intended to encourage my suicide. These have been continuing now for years. Harassment has not been limited to online, either: members of Colin Batley’s ‘cult’ just happen to live in the city of Bristol, where I live – as does a certain wealthy ex-cult leader, desperate to cover his embarrassment at how low the Illuminates of Thanateros have truly sunk. The police have been informed of all of this, but there is not a lot they can do about any of it.

Unsurprisingly, gossip regarding this vile situation has spread through various forums like wildfire; especially wherever the guilty have influence and see an opportunity to try and control the narrative. Anyone who speaks up in support of me, or even expresses the same views, is almost invariably accused of actually being my ‘sock-puppet’ (i.e. a fake internet identity secretly controlled by me). Since nobody wants to find themselves suffering the libel and slander I have, this has often proven effective.

The majority of people, not wanting to think to deeply about matters such as the ritualized abuse of children, or how much money ‘cults’ might make out of selling sadistic porn films of (apparent?) ‘Satanic Ritual Abuse’ (i.e. sadistic paedophiles dressed in black robes and masks). Such films are worth even more money since S.R.A. is officially denied to exist by both UK and USA governments, who ‘coincidentally’ keep having to face allegations of people trafficking, child prostitution, and even of participating in the sadistic rituals themselves..

I bet there is, by now, a wide market for such films. I can certainly tell you that, during the decade that Colin Batley’s group was operating, all those I later learned to have been involved with it came into money. This is why they can point their finger at me, who has none (thanks to their efforts), and use this as ‘evidence’ for their assertion that I am bitter and jealous of their (apparent) success.

That Colin Batley was a member of the Illuminates of Thanateros has been disclosed by others, other than myself. The first was from the anonymous ‘Deathcultreject’, who disclosed on the forums of David Icke’s website in 2009. Since Icke himself has been widely ‘discredited’, despite having been right about Jimmy Savile and much else besides, and ‘Deathcultreject’ by their own admission suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder (a condition caused by extreme childhood trauma) their disclosures have been dismissed by police and the occult community alike. There is also a blog by a single mother and ex ‘novice’ of the German section of the Illuminates of Thanateros, where she expresses her disgust that not everyone in the order saw Colin Batley’s membership as a problem. More recently, Ray Sherwin has published his book OUROBOROS, where he states that he has had disclosures and complaints from many people, all around the world, concerning the criminal activities of the Illuminates of Thanateros.

The first disclosures I was present at in 2012 identified to me 13 people including my own father, Robert Harris aka Szandor Dashwood (styling himself after Satanists Szandor LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan, and Dashwood, founder of the Hellfire Club), my mother and stepfather, Ann and Adrian Brynn-Evans (well known as ‘witches’ and ‘Druids’), the mother of my daughter Nicola Ward aka Nikki Wyrd (current Magi of the Illuminates of Thanateros, who by her own admission was introduced to magick by myself), several other ex-lovers (Anton Channing, Peter Mastin, Angelena Lovecraft, all also members of the I.O.T., and all of whom held grudges since having been rejected by me), Jaq D Hawkins aka Denise Channing (another I.O.T. Member, and at that time partner to Anton Channing), and Mogg Morgan (who, as ‘Mandrake of Oxford’, currently publishes books written by I.O.T. members). My mother and stepfather are also long term associates of Julian Vayne, who they knew since the 1990s when he lived in Milton Keynes, and who is now Nikki Ward’s partner (occultism is a small world indeed!) and as a result in a position of leadership within the Illuminates of Thanateros. In addition to the 13, the disclosures also included the victim’s own parents, Peter Pracownik (New Age artist, sometime Hawkwind guitarist, friend to Gary Glitter, a friend of my stepfather’s since the 1970s – Google his name alongside Julian Vayne and you will find they also know each other) and their stepmother Nicola Lydon. This is by no means a disparate group of people who can claim not to know each other, as they have often insisted. When Colin Batley was jailed, it was widely reported that there was a large cult around him, the membership of which he refused to identify. These people, and others, were that cult.

I have attempted, over and over, to warn people, and have suffered greatly as a result. Meanwhile, the occult community continues to support events organised by the guilty, and their books even get mentioned in The Guardian. This is because, as was widely reported, the cult around Colin Batley (actually the order – probably orders in plural – that he was involved with, also including the Pagan Federation and the O.T.O.) is well connected: not just within occultism, but through corruption within police, social services, and even the media. When Jasmine and I met Colin Batley face-to-face at ‘Crowley Day’, held at The Cube, Bristol, December 2006, where he attended disguised by fake facial tattoos actually drawn with Sharpie pens and fixed with hairspray (it worked at the time) and claiming his name was Nigel, he boasted to us of having connections in the psychedelic music industry (everyone around Jasmine’s ex-partner Peter Pracownik and Hawkwind, but incongruously not them), and politics (claiming to have been abused as a child in Satanic Ritual as a child by a well known member of parliament).

Since this blog started, one of these 13 has been hit by a train, and the Illuminates of Thanateros have been disgraced by both the order’s original founders. Additionally, both Jasmine and myself have been cleared in court – after a 9 month long fact finding – of NOT being in any way responsible for the victim’s disclosures. Despite what it might say online, I have also been officially examined by psychiatrists and found to be remarkably sane, and therefore capable of offering evidence in a court room. Beyond the 15 (13 plus the victim’s biological father and stepmother), the disclosures included being further targetted by other peadophiles connected to the Batley cult and resident in Bristol (where Batley is widely reported to have also operated): one of the main perpetrators here (just weeks after taunting me online for working in a British Heart Foundation charity shop) has suffered several heart attacks and will soon be dead. We also have an upheld IPCC complaint, proving that police botched the investigation right from the start, and meaning the case can be reopened at any time if others come forward with evidence.

As far as I am concerned these are all hard won successes, but it is clear the war is much bigger than these few minor battles. BEASTWING 666 shall continue to expose those involved in the ritual abuse of children and adults. I will not rest or back down from this, for any reason – whether because of libel, slander, death threats, alleged ‘curses’, physical harassment, or legal threats. Watch this space for further updates.